


snowflakes and coffee cups

by porcelainsimplicity



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Post-Film
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-31 05:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/porcelainsimplicity/pseuds/porcelainsimplicity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>written for the beautiful naomi.  inspired by a small diner in my town.  product of my need to reconcile the two of them, at least somehow.</p>
    </blockquote>





	snowflakes and coffee cups

**Author's Note:**

> written for the beautiful naomi. inspired by a small diner in my town. product of my need to reconcile the two of them, at least somehow.

Snow had just started to fall as he walked into the small diner, slowly unwrapping his scarf from around his neck as he walked towards a booth near the kitchen entrance, close enough that he could dash through there and out the back door if necessary. He sat so he was facing the windows, and he scanned them as he pulled his hat down low over his eyes, a habit he'd picked up when he was little more than a child trying to hide under the all-knowing eyes of the Nazi patrols. Constantly vigilant and meticulously aware, he was nonetheless surprised when the waitress suddenly appeared from behind him, and he silently told himself he was getting too dependent on stupid telepaths.

“Good afternoon, sugar. What can I get for you?” she asked in a too-sweet voice, the kind that he'd always associated with people who were trying too hard to be something they weren't, and it made him wish one of the damned telepaths were there if only to tell him the woman's secrets.

“Cup of coffee,” he said, keeping his voice at an even tone and his eyes on the windows so she didn't mistake his order for flirtation. “Black.”

“Coming right up.” The high pitch of her voice just accentuated the New York accent even more, and it drew his mind back to the question he'd been asking himself since he'd decided on this idiotic plan.

Why was he, of all people, in, of all places, Westchester?

The answer was a complicated mess of truths he'd carefully kept hidden from the rest of the Brotherhood, and lies he'd told that had more than a little truth to them, and he knew it without having to give it much thought. But it was still a thought that he didn't want to give, because listening to those thoughts meant admitting things that he really didn't want to. Like how he'd been missing an English accent echoing through his mind, the messiness of dark brown hair spread across a pillow, the feeling of strong legs wrapped around his waist as he lost himself in the sort of pleasure he'd never known before. Thoughts of a man that he wasn't even sure was still alive, a man whose death would have been entirely his fault.

He shook himself from his thoughts as the coffee was set down in front of him, and he managed a smile for the waitress as he shook his head to indicate he didn't need anything more. Emma had told him that she had felt the reach of Charles's mind on a couple of different occasions, and so clearly that meant that Charles wasn't dead and Hank had rebuilt Cerebro and he should be far more concerned about the recruiting that they were obviously doing. He picked up his coffee cup and took a long sip, trying to tell himself yet again that the real reason he was there was to see what he could find out about the newest Xavier recruits.

He hadn't even set the cup down again before he reminded himself that it was a lie.

He sat in the relative silence of the diner and slowly drank his coffee. The waitress came back several times to refill his cup, and he lost himself in trying to plan just how close he could get to the mansion before he figured Charles would pick up on the fact that he was there. But his thoughts kept straying to memories of being at the mansion, of stupid things like late-night chess games and glasses of scotch, of kisses sneaked behind the closed doors of Charles's office and of things that he'd been foolish enough to allow himself to feel. Every time one of those thoughts crossed his mind, he said a silent prayer for the fact that Emma was too far away to read his thoughts.

He'd been there for a few hours, having been talked into some food and a piece of apple pie by the waitress with the fake smile, when the door to the diner opened. He paid no attention to it at first, continuing to pretend to read the newspaper he'd brought with him, but then he heard that too-sweet voice call out a greeting.

“Charles, sugar! How are you today?”

“Fine, Rose. Just fine.”

He knew that voice. He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them again, drawing his gaze away from the newspaper towards the door. A familiar looking blond boy was standing behind a man in a wheelchair, familiar dark brown hair peeking out from underneath a hat, and his heart nearly stopped. Charles motioned to Havok, and he watched as the boy bent down so Charles could whisper something to him, and then the boy was leaving and Charles was coming towards him in what was obviously a motorized wheelchair, and his brain was screaming at him to run for the back exit.

_Don't leave._

There was that voice in his head, the one he'd missed so much, and even though he knew he shouldn't listen to it, his body didn't move an inch. Charles rolled up to the table right across from his booth, and the waitress was there, moving chairs around so Charles could pull up to it. He listened as Charles ordered a cup of tea and a piece of chocolate cake, keeping his eyes firmly on the newspaper as he felt Charles's gaze land on him. 

A wheelchair. He'd known that Charles was injured and that the injury was serious, but a wheelchair...the possibility of paralysis had never entered his mind. He'd cost Charles his legs, the strong legs that used to pull him in and...

He cut off his thoughts abruptly, acutely aware of where that was going and how inappropriate it was. Instead he concentrated on the fact that it was his fault. His fault. Everything was fucked up now, and there wasn't a Nazi in sight to blame it on. This was entirely, completely, and totally his fault.

_Don't blame yourself, Erik. I don't blame you._

There was the voice again, so soft and even and fucking sympathetic that he found himself slamming his hand down on the table far harder than was necessary. He could hear the waitress yelp in the background, hear Charles talking to her about having had the same reaction to something that must have been in the newspaper. He clenched his fist around the newspaper, crumpling up the side until half the page was unreadable, and it got him a funny look from the waitress when she brought Charles his order. He took a deep breath and calmed himself down, folding up the newspaper and tossing it onto the table.

He listened to Charles's fork clink against the ceramic plate as he sipped at his coffee, in an awkward sort of silence that he couldn't possibly have been the only one to notice. Charles said nothing more, and that was a relief and a disappointment all wrapped up together, and fuck, he really needed to get out of there before Charles figured out why he was there. But he didn't know where Havok had gone, and he wasn't about to walk into a trap, and though it was torture on a level he hadn't experienced before, sitting in the stupid diner with Charles and the stupid waitress was probably the safest place for him.

The waitress walked into the kitchen and the elderly couple that had been sitting towards the front of the diner got up and left, and then he was hearing that voice again, but it wasn't in his head.

“It's a school, Erik. The recruits are nothing but children who are coming to a safe place to learn. And if you want to leave, I'm not going to stop you. And neither will Alex.”

The memory of their last night together in the mansion flared up in his mind, of words that were said that turned into promises that were broken, and then there was the scene on the beach, when he walked away from the one thing he knew would bring him real peace. He didn't know if Charles brought the memories up or if he remembered them on his own, but he knew that no matter how much he wished that he could stay, he had to go.

He stood up and reached for his scarf, wrapping it tightly around his neck. He reached for his wallet and tossed some money onto the table, more than was necessary and more than the waitress deserved, and then he turned and looked at Charles. Their eyes met and Charles held his gaze, and he could see the pleading in his eyes, the longing, those unspoken words that both had been too stubborn to ever give voice to, and he knew that if he walked away, those words would never be given the voice that they deserved, the longing would never be fulfilled, the pleading would be for nothing.

But he'd already made his choice.

“Stay out of my head,” he said bitterly, turning and quickly walking out of the diner. The snow was falling harder now, his jacket still in his hotel room, but he stood there for a minute and looked around, carefully taking in his surroundings and making sure that the group of kids weren't going to jump out at him.

_I told you that I wasn't going to stop you. Goodbye, my friend._

The voice made his feet start moving, walking as quickly as he could without drawing attention to himself. He needed to get the hell out of Westchester.


End file.
